The Girl In The Glass (6 page)

Chapter 10

“
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”
Margaux Amory whispered in Aimée’s ear. “You were born to be a star.”

Aimée resisted a strong temptation to simply say
I know
and leave it at that. Instead she told the Oscar-­winning actress, “Thank you. Coming from you, Ms. Amory, that really means a lot.”

“Please. Call me Margaux and not Ms. Amory. And please call me next week. Your father has the number. There are some ­people I think you really ought to meet. Or, perhaps more accurately, who ought to meet you.”

Aimée promised she would and headed toward the bar. She briefly noticed her sister watching her intently. Jules wasn’t smiling.

Charles Kraft fell in beside her. Took her by the elbow. She could feel the bulge of his SIG Sauer 9 mm automatic pressing into her arm from under his jacket. “Y’know, you really are something else,” he said.

She smiled at Charles. “Thank you, Charles. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Oh, definitely a compliment.”

She asked Mr. Jolley, who was tending bar, to pour her a vodka on the rocks. Ketel One. He hesitated. She was, after all, only eighteen.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Jolley. I won’t tell a soul,” she said, adding after a pause, “not about anything.”

Jolley frowned. Then tossed some ice cubes in a glass and filled it with vodka.

Kraft watched the exchange, then asked Jolley for the same.

When he had it, he took Aimée’s elbow again and began steering her toward the terrace. “Y’know,” he said, “now that you’ve become a real grown-­up . . . ordering vodka, threatening the staff . . .”

“What do you mean, ‘threatening’?”

“You know exactly what I mean. You and I are too much alike not to recognize the threats we each make. Even the more subtle ones.”

“I see. And how else are we alike?”

Kraft held her arm a little tighter. “We both like things a little dangerous.”

“Yes, perhaps we do. But not tonight, Charles. I have other plans. Now, if you’ll please let go of my arm. You’re hurting me.”

“Yes, Charles,” Julia’s voice came from behind them. “I think you should let go of Daddy’s ‘dearest, favorite girl.’ He won’t like it.”

Kraft glanced at Julia. Apparently deciding a tactical retreat was in order, he released Aimée’s arm. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said and walked away.

“That was some performance you gave,” said Julia. “How long have you been planning this?”

“I first saw the painting in a book last year. Noticed the resemblance. Then when Daddy told us he was buying it and that it would be presented at the graduation party, I figured what the hell.”

“And you didn’t bother to tell me.”

“I didn’t tell anyone, Jules. For one thing, I wasn’t sure I could pull it off. For another, I wanted it to be a surprise. To everyone.”

“And I thought I was the actress in the family,” she said with a snort. “But look at you. Hair. Makeup. The dress. All of it perfect. Everything except for the earrings. I don’t remember Daddy giving them to you.”

“Now Jules, don’t have a hissy. I haven’t absconded with the family jewels. Let’s just say I borrowed them for the occasion. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I don’t think either of us should be ignoring our guests.”

Aimée left Julia standing there and walked out through the French doors. She noticed Aman Anbessa standing alone at the far end of the patio. He was wearing the same blazer, khakis and tie he’d worn for graduation and was drinking a Coke out of the can. She walked over and congratulated him on getting a full scholarship to Tufts. “Your parents must be very proud. Are they here?”

“They didn’t want to come. Said they would have felt out of place. But I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

“Good. I’m glad. Are you coming to the kids’ after-­party? After the grown-­ups go home.”

“Oh yes? Where will it be?”

“At the top of the cliff.”

He shook his head. “I haven’t been invited.”

“Of course you’re invited. It’ll start around eleven. Hot dogs. Beer. Vodka if you want it.”

“I don’t drink alcohol. Or eat pork.”

“No pork? Heavens, you’re not Jewish, are you?”

Aman visibly stiffened.

“I’m sorry. I was only teasing. There’ll be a lot of other things to eat. You can have whatever you want. Stay. It should be fun. You’ll see where to go by the big bonfire. You’ll also see a bunch of the other kids headed that way.”

“If I don’t catch the ferry, how will I get home?”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. There’ll be boats going back and forth all night. But some of the kids brought sleeping bags so they could sleep out by the cliff. If you wanted to do that, we could lend you one.”

“No. I think I need to get home.”

“Well, it’ll be easy to get you a ride. If you get stuck, I can give you a ride myself.”

“You know, Aimée, I’ve always been put off by you, not just for beating me out for valedictorian but . . .” He paused, then waved his arms in all directions. “ . . . for having all this. For looking like you do. Are you telling me I was wrong?”

“I don’t know. Were you?”

Aman looked into her eyes and said without smiling, “Time will tell.”

“Yes, I suppose it will. Anyway, welcome to Whitby Island.” She leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheek. To her surprise, he kissed her back, his lips lightly brushing hers.

“See you later by the cliff?”

“Perhaps.”

She left and headed back toward the bar for a refill.

Before she got halfway, she felt a hand descend on her ass.

Moseley. Of course. She hadn’t noticed him approaching.

“What’s up with you, Aimée?”

Not eight o’clock yet and Will was already slurring his words. He took a sip from the whiskey he was holding, and then glanced over at Aman.

“Getting it on with our friends from Africa now?” he said. “Eager to see how a little dark meat tastes?”

Aimée’s slap across Moseley’s cheek had enough power behind it to snap his head back. He balled his hand into a fist and drew it back. Aman moved toward them.

A number of guests on the patio turned and stared.

“Stay out of this, monkey boy,” Moseley snapped. Still, he relaxed his fist.

“Jesus Christ, Moseley. You are such an asshole.” Aimée spat out the words. “I can’t believe the garbage that comes out of your mouth. Now why don’t you apologize to our guest and then get your racist ass off my island and leave me alone?”

Moseley didn’t move.

“All right. If you won’t apologize, I will. I’m sorry, Aman, for what this jerk said.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve heard worse.”

Aman turned and started walking into the darkness, away from the house.

Aimée watched him go, then started toward the French doors. Moseley followed. He was stopped short by Charles Kraft, who stepped between them.

“Give me the drink.”

“Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to, Kraft?” said Moseley in a voice loud enough for everyone on the terrace to hear him. “What are you, the bouncer or something?”

“Or something,” Kraft said quietly. “Now give me the drink. You’ve had too much.”

Moseley insolently took another sip.

Aimée stared at the two of them, wondering if Moseley was drunk enough to take Charles on, kind of hoping in a way he would. He was two inches taller, maybe twenty pounds heavier, played football for Yale. Still, she was sure he’d get his ass kicked.

“Give him the drink, Will.” Daddy had come out the door. He didn’t look happy. “Right now. Before you embarrass yourself any further.”

“Yes, sir.” Moseley handed the glass to Kraft, who took it and went inside.

“And you’re not to have any more tonight.”

“No, sir.”

“Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” Daddy said to the half dozen or so guests who’d gathered around to watch, “I apologize for the interruption. Just a young man getting carried away with the joys of alcohol. Please go back to enjoying yourselves.”

The gawkers wandered away. Daddy followed.

“You liked that little show, didn’t you?” Moseley said to Aimée.

“Actually,” she said with a small smile, “I was hoping for a little more action at the end.”

Moseley glared at her for a minute.
If looks could kill,
Aimée thought to herself.
If looks could only kill.
Will stormed off in the direction of the dock where the Moseley yacht was moored. She knew for a fact there was plenty of booze on board.

Chapter 11

B
Y MIDNIGHT MOST
of the guests had left. Julia found herself growing more and more irritated by the minute. Her mother was in the hall, locked in conversation with a hard-­looking man Julia didn’t know. From her expression, Jules could tell she didn’t want to be disturbed, and she couldn’t think of anyone else she could commiserate with. Everyone, aside from Julia and her mother, thought the painting and Aimée’s little star-­turn were so very wonderful. She walked over to the bar near the patio door. Mr. Jolley was gone, so Jules poured herself another glass of champagne from one of the bottles he’d left for the remaining guests.

Julia knew she’d already had too much, but she was in no mood to stop. She took a sip and studied the century-­old image of her half twin hanging on the other side of the room, a self-­satisfied smile on her face, as if this room, this house, this entire fucking world had been made for her and her only. It made Jules crazy knowing that every time she came into this room, probably for the rest of her life, her bloody bitch of a sister would be staring down at her with that fucking smirk.

Of course, Jules had gushed appropriately when Daddy unveiled the painting. But even then she knew she’d never be able to enjoy this room again the way she had in the past. It was as if Aimée was laying claim to it. Just as she’d laid claim to the old studio because she, and not Julia, was a painter like the first Aimée. And laid claim to Will Moseley, who wanted Aimée so much more than he’d ever wanted Jules.

According to the
New York Times
Arts Section, Daddy had paid $2.4 million for the painting. And he probably would have gone higher. All for his beloved Aimée. His two beloved Aimées. Would he have paid so much if the painting had looked like Julia instead of Aimée? If the genetics had gone the other way and she’d inherited the Whitby genes, or, perhaps more accurately, the Garnier genes and Aimée hadn’t? But there was no way to answer that, because then she’d be her sister and her sister would look like a blonde reporter for the
Press Herald.
Julia told herself to stop thinking that way. It would make her crazy.

She walked across the living room, where her father was still talking to the few remaining guests, and into the empty study, closing the door behind her. She went to a glass case that stood against the far wall. She looked down at the Tanto, the antique Samurai dagger, with its elaborately carved bone handle and sheath. Dating back to the fourteenth century, it was purchased by the first Edward Whitby on one of his voyages to the Far East. It was still sitting where it was supposed to have been, but wasn’t, the day Garrison used it to murder his mistress. What if she followed Garrison’s example? She imagined herself climbing a ladder late at night, slipping the Tanto from its sheath, raising it high and shredding the fucking painting into a million worthless pieces. Daddy would get his money back. She was sure he’d insured it for at least what he’d paid for it. Maybe more. But of course he’d never forgive her. She’d be disowned and disinherited, assigned forever to Whitby purgatory, if not to hell. On the other hand, was there any reason he had to know it was she who’d wielded the blade? Julia reached for the sides of the glass case and began to lift it. She just wanted to feel the heft of the knife in her hand.

“A real bitch, isn’t she?”

She started at the sound of Will Moseley’s voice coming from behind the back of the leather couch. She hadn’t noticed him lying there. Had he seen her opening the case where the knife was kept? She couldn’t be sure.

“A real honest to God bitch,” he repeated. “Aimée, I mean.”

Moseley got to his feet and took a long swig from what looked like a glass of whiskey. He must have brought it from his father’s boat, or perhaps filched it from the kitchen. The bartenders had all been instructed not to give him anything more to drink. Still, that had been four hours ago, and he seemed more sober now.

“Aimée?” Julia responded. “A bitch? Don’t be silly, Will. Everybody knows how wonderful Aimée is. No, I take it back.
Wonderful
’s not nearly a good enough word. Not for Aimée.
Perfect
is better. Yes, perfection in every way. The perfect daughter. The perfect student. The perfect girlfriend. And, oh yes, I guess when it comes down to it you really are right, the perfect bitch.”

Julia flopped down in a big leather chair opposite the sofa. “And there she’ll be, the bitch over the fireplace, staring down at us forever.”

Will said nothing.

“I wonder if you have any idea, my darling Will, what it’s been like having to play second fiddle every day of my life to such an amazing, beautiful, perfectly wonderful sister.”

Will smiled. “Don’t worry, Jules. You’ll get your chance to shine.”

Julia smiled a bitter smile. “Will I? Who knows? But I can promise you one thing. I have no intention of living in Aimée’s shadow forever.”

Moseley rose, went to the chair where Julia was sitting and pulled her to her feet. He put both his drink and her champagne on a side table and put his arms around her waist. He pulled her close.

She pulled away. “Don’t play games with me, Will. Not tonight. I know it’s Aimée you really want. Just like every other male in the place. At least the ones who don’t need Viagra. And, frankly, I’m in no mood tonight to play the role of
that other Whitby girl. You know
,
the not quite so pretty one? The one who didn’t quite make valedictorian. Oh darn
,
what’s her name? I can’t seem to remember.
No. No more of that. Not tonight, Will. Not with you. Not with anyone. Not ever. I’ve been cast in that role for far too long. It’s time for me to put a stop to it.”

Moseley, still hopeful he could somehow work his magic, moved in and nuzzled her neck. “Oh, come on, Jules. You know how much I’ve always liked you. Because you’re you and not ‘that other Whitby girl.’ ”

“Maybe some other time, Moseley, but not tonight.”

Will sighed. “Fine.” He moved his hands from around Julia’s waist. “So who’s the perfect bitch hanging out with tonight? That black guy? Or maybe that asshole Kraft? Or has she found some other poor sucker?”

“You really want to know?” asked Julia, lowering her voice to a whisper, as if she was about to reveal a deep, dark secret.

Moseley nodded. “Yeah. I really want to know.”

“Who’d you have for senior English?”

“At Penfield?”

“Yes, at Penfield.”

“You have
got
to be kidding. That poetry-­spouting twink? He’s got to be at least twice her age. And, frankly, I always thought he was a fag.”

Julia smiled. Exactly what her mother had said when Julia told her about Aimée’s affair a ­couple of weeks ago. She was certain her mother would put a stop to it. But she hadn’t. At least not yet.

“Ssssh.” Julia put a finger over Moseley’s lips. “Not so loud. They’ll hear you. But you’re at least half right. He’s thirty-­six.”

“Jesus. Did Aimée tell you this?”

“Of course not. It’s her secret. And his. If it ever went public, Penfield would kick his tail out of there so fast it’d make his head spin. And God knows what Daddy would do. Of course, Will, I know I can count on you not to breathe a word of it.” She smiled at him conspiratorially. “I mean I can, can’t I?”

“If it’s such a big secret, how come you know about it?”

Jules smiled her cat-­who-­swallowed-­the-­canary smile. “Oh, I have my ways.”

“Such as?”

“Such as figuring out ­people’s passwords. But I
can
count on you not to say a word about this, can’t I?”

“Who would I tell?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Your old Penfield buddies. Your father maybe.”

“Not a word.” Moseley smiled and took another slug of his whiskey. “Not a word.”